Chapter One
Jameson
The White Isle.
Turquoise seas and emerald-green trees. Fine, soft sand dusting coves where the ocean lapped languidly, as if it was too void of the energy to be anything remotely fierce. Enclaves of olive and fig trees were spotted around the traditionalfincas, their metre-thick walls washed with white and bearing only tiny windows, marking them as forts against the summer heat, as well as any enemies who dared to disturb the peace and the pleasure of the island.
Happiness. Holidays.
Hedonism.
The place I’d been returning to since I was a child.
The plane started to drop, the island’s details becoming clearer through the half-misted window, although I knew every inch of the scene from memory by now. Summers on Ibiza had been a staple part of my childhood. Every year we’d retreat to Es Cubells, sometimes more than once a year. Christmases, Easters, an extended Whit holiday – any excuse and our mother would whisk us from the grime and dull noise of London to Ibiza and our home there. One summer turned into two years there; home tutors were employed, the staff expanded, her favourite chef flown in from England to become almost part of the family. The olive trees and the sea and the perfect white sands of Cala Lleyna became as much of my childhood as cartoons and wobbly teeth.
We were blessed then.
We still were now.
The private jet – because heaven forbid I ever travelled with lesser mortals – hovered over Roca Lisa, the sandy outline of the land perfectly visible, white painted buildings all looking out to sea, as if their only role was to watch the yachts that circled the island.
“We’ll be landing in about ten minutes.” The flight attendant, whose name I’d learned was Suranne, looked exhausted. She was part of the crew my mother’s partner kept on retainer, ready to fly him wherever his heart desired, whenever it desired.
“I hope you get to relax for a couple of nights before you have to fly back.” I gave her a smile, because as our mother had taught us, a smile costs nothing yet is priceless.
Suranne nodded. “We’re staying on Ibiza for a week. Then I think Mr Lawrence has a trip to Abu Dhabi planned.”
Mr Lawrence had been my mother’s partner for several years.
“Chance to enjoy the nightlife then.” I saw the flicker of a glint in her eye. Suranne probably wasn’t much older than my twenty-three years, and in another life we could possibly have been friends. A non-disclosure agreement was part and parcel of working for Lawrie, or my parents, but I’d learned the hard way before that friendship wasn’t what people always sought from me.
“Hopefully. We have tickets to Pasha tomorrow night. I’ll need two days to recover from that so please encourage your father to stay put for a few more days.” Her giggle was cute, only I wasn’t sure whether it was about the prospect of a party, or the thought of Marvin Lawrence.
“He’s not my father.”
“Sorry. I forget sometimes that Mr Lawrence is your step-father.” The giggle had gone. “Pardon me.”
My nod was singular and the smile that accompanied it was forced this time. I looked back out of the window of the jet, my ears starting to pop with the pressure, Playa D’en Bossa beneath us.
I braced myself for the rocky landing, knowing that small private jets were never as smooth as the commercial aircraft, and knowing I was never going to whine about it.
A privileged life was what I’d been born into; I’d had no say in the matter who my parents were, or who my grandfather was, or the fact that my father had managed to carve out a career in music – and not the type his father-in-law approved of. I’d grown up in a world that was part antiquated manners and graces, and part rock ‘n’ roll.
The love child of an heiress and a rock legend.
Maybe that was why Ibiza had always felt like home.
The jet felt like it bounced as it hit the runway, the usual lurch in my stomach almost thrusting into my throat. When I was a little girl, I’d hated this bit, feeling out of control and at mercy of whoever was in charge of our landing. I remembered how my mother would hold my hand, talking to my sister about anything other than what was happening – clothes, handbags, visitors to our villa, anything and everything.
Lara was older than me by eleven months. She was taller but took the same size clothes. There was no mistaking that we were our parents’ children, although both of us looked more like Livi Finch-Cooper, with the eyes and mouth of our dad. Lara inherited Livi’s love of fashion; she started modelling when she was just thirteen and thrived under the harsh studio lighting. We called her Lala as a nickname although I had no idea where it stemmed from.
She was picking me up from the airport.
If I survived this landing, the journey home could be the thing to kill me. Unless I could wrangle the car keys from her.
We landed, an average bounce and the usual thud. My heart resumed a normal pace as the cabin crew opened the doors, the pilot already at the front, grinning at me. He was young, beautiful, with a smile that could charm the underwear from any person, and azure eyes I was sure at least a dozen people had drowned in. Maybe willingly. I smiled back, using the practiced curve of my lips that I’d learned as a girl, one that gave nothing away and yet the recipient would feel as if they’d been given everything.
Heat enveloped me as I walked to the steps. Pale blue skies and concrete provided the décor, the whirr of aircraft the soundtrack. Somewhere, maybe in Sant Antoni or Eivissa, the beat was different, house music filling the apartments and balconies of people on the island ready to party, no matter the time. A summer full of sounds, sand and sex, and all the extras that Ibiza could offer. It was a buffet for the hedonists, the eccentrics, the hippies. A safe haven for those who needed an escape where the only judgement was your own.
